


omnes iusti sunt

by graiai



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Breathplay, Consensual But It Shouldn't Be, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Power Play, Size Kink, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23704906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graiai/pseuds/graiai
Summary: All’s fair in love and war. This is the latter.
Relationships: Gaius van Baelsar/Milisandia, Gaius van Baelsar/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	omnes iusti sunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mechabre (tender_anaphylaxis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tender_anaphylaxis/gifts).



> this fic depicts a trans guy having sex with someone who spends part of the story fantasizing about a cis woman in his stead, which may be uncomfortable for some readers otherwise undaunted by the tags.

The Warrior of Light looks much the same as last Gaius met him, the only mark of his time in the otherworld of the First the bruises tiredness has pressed beneath his eyes. In their first, early encounters he had looked so terribly young. Strong even then, to be sure, but deriving so much of that strength from childish spite for those who doubted, diminished, or disrespected him. Now he wears age not in any lines on his face but in his bearing, the set of his shoulders and the ever-soft line of his jaw. In their confrontation within the Prætorium, the Warrior of Light had snapped an indignant correction at a misinformed _girl_ ; Gaius cannot imagine the man he is now—though on that ill-fated day Gaius had replied _woman then, or boy?_ it is clear that in the intervening time he has grown into a man—reacting thus, for ‘tis clear he has matured past that desperate need for approval which gnaws at so many youth. At most he would a glance skyward before letting such a trifling matter affect him, confident enough he need seek no validation from the mouths of strangers or enemies.

What he now seeks from Gaius’ mouth is a far cry from validation—and best he does not ask, for in weak moments it is Milisandia Gaius sees above him, not the man who helped Gaius to kill her. Should he slip, he harbors little doubt so too would the hand which holds the point of a blade to his nape.

The Warrior of Light’s other hand lies tangled in Gaius’ hair, and small as it is there is no hint of strain for how surely Gaius’ scalp will be made bruised and tender for his grip. Gaius allows himself to be directed by that little hand and that little knife, neither any less dangerous for how small they would be in his own. He has long been used to balancing his life upon the efficacy of his submission, first to His Radiance the Emperor and of late to Valdeaulin, whom Gaius would not dare insult by calling an ally. The taste of his degradation is no more bitter upon his tongue with the Warrior of Light than ever it has been.

The few occasions he had taken Milisandia past his lips in this manner, it was as a favor both freely given and undemanded; she had struggled to find her climax as she rarely did for Gaius’ hand or her own. Should the man before him have any such notions of the shame in dirtying one’s mouth, he has no qualms receiving the act of his enemy: his thighs are hasty in beginning to quake beneath Gaius’ hands, and his slick to make a mess of Gaius’ chin. Scant moments before his need overtakes him, the man pulls roughly at Gaius’ hair to forbid his own undoing; shoving Gaius backwards, he clambers into his lap with a cunt wet enough to stain the trousers he gropes Gaius’ cock through. The knife in his other hand finds a new home at Gaius’ throat, the Warrior of Light unbothered when it nicks him.

Gaius looks down at the man in his lap without lowering his chin. “What shall I be doing to you, pray tell?” he asks, perhaps more glib than a man with a bloodied throat ought.

“I’m sick of giving orders,” he spits, a sneer marring his pretty face, “and I’m sick of taking them, too, before you go getting any _ideas_.”

Gaius refrains from laughter, but does not go so far as to still the amused rise of his brow. “Anything I’ll lose my head for, then?” 

The Warrior of Light meets his gaze with a burning intensity and no love lost. “Do your worst.”

He says nothing else as his nimble fingers pry loose the laces of Gaius’ waistband, freeing his cock. At his age, there’s a ways to go before he is fully hard, but neither is it disinterested. Put any dainty young thing bare in his lap and his cock is like to fill—and the Warrior of Light has a look about him, less slender than Milisandia but with such similar coloring Gaius cannot help but to see her face painted ‘cross his features for the twin aches of grief and loneliness. He is not too proud to wallow, and when his daughter cringes away from the soft touch of his fingers upon her cheek, the illusion shatters under the pressure to leave only the Warrior of Light’s discomfited sneer in its wake.

Gaius closes his eyes as he slips his hand between the Warrior of Light’s thighs, strong as if he wielded not a staff but a lance; tips his head forward despite the edge of the blade at his throat to let his forehead rest against the man’s narrow shoulder. A fool’s course, perhaps, but should at last his life be forfeit to the Warrior of Light’s blade, on this day he deserves no less.

With his eyes closed the bowstring tension of the body he holds is mere nerves, for it is his daughter who sits perched in his lap, the lips of her wet cunt warm beneath his touch. She’s newly twenty-five, for that is the last time Gaius saw her alive, and while she has long grown into her adult height and frame, Milisandia still balks at the prospect of being had by him: Auri do not bear the same proportions as native Garleans, whose daughters are scant ilms shorter than their sons if there is any difference at all. Gaius’ cock is twice the size her body was made to take.

Though the younger of her sisters is smaller still and has proven herself capable, Gaius has never pressed such matters with Milisandia, satisfied only to kiss her neck and get her off without pressing even fingers inside of her. She prefers a gentler touch than Livia, though that is hardly unusual; the rock of his hand with her clit and the soft lips of her cunt caught between two of his fingers is a sure path to her completion. His other hand might caress her, brushing his callused fingers up over the knobs of her spine to find her hairline, thumbing the underside of one of her delicate horns.

“Never took you for kind,” the Warrior of Light says, his voice strung taut as the muscles in his neck as he angles his head to avoid the intimacy of such a touch, the little knife in his hand still held steady. Opening his eyes despite the draw of the complacency of the past, Gaius raises his head.

Whatever the Warrior of Light sees in his face, his own delicate features screw up in revulsion. “Oh, you _disgusting_ —you’re thinking about the pilot, aren’t you? Can’t you find it within yourself to be only a brute for an hour, and not the lowest slime?” The blade, warmed by its press against Gaius’ throat, draws away for but a moment, and then with a swift movement is jabbed into his side. Gaius bites down on the cry it’s wont to draw out of his throat, more for the shock of the stabbing than its pain. The Warrior of Light has seen to it that the wound is only smarting, its only real threat an infection should it be left uncared for even by a salve.

Grinding his teeth, Gaius sets his bait with a low voice: “Have you no friends with which to sate this need of yours?”

“Not _this_ ,” the Warrior of Light replies, and Gaius doesn’t doubt it. A hero must needs find a villain to oblige him, if his desire is to be hurt. “Have you no _children_?”

Gaius catches his wrist and twists until the Warrior of Light drops his knife; he may have been beaten by this man before, but with his staff out of reach and no show of strength from Hydælyn at his back, the Warrior of Light is only a man, and has nothing on Gaius in height or bulk. Like this, it is no trial to overpower him, to get the Warrior of Light on his back and pin him down. Gaius looms over him with a hand around his throat, and his fury is enough to disregard the self-satisfied smile playing across the Warrior of Light’s lips.

If he wants to be hurt, so be it; Gaius will hurt him.

He considers turning the Warrior of Light over to sodomize him on hands and knees, driving his cock as deep into the man as his slight form would allow. He considers taking the fallen knife and wounding him in turn to fuck the gash with the weapon’s hilt, Gaius’ own blood trickling down from his grip on the blade as he keeps the Warrior of Light on the edge of completion. He considers even to use his mouth, grip so tight on his horns he might fear them break, and when he could not make his cock fit within that narrow jaw force the Warrior of Light to defile himself to lick it, watching cold as Valdeaulin when he wishes Gaius himself be made so low.

He considers these scenes, and then he presses the vaunted hero’s knee to turn out and pries apart the lips of his tight little cunt with thumb and forefinger—for of any hole of his to be fucked, the Warrior of Light is most like to be averse to this one.

No amount of arousal could spare one so slight pain from penetration; Allie was like to tear even dripping, and the Warrior of Light is not so wet as that. It can be only pride which keeps him silent: in the unforgiving grip of Gaius’ hand, the man’s throat works to force down any cry, tough cartilage moving under his fingers—and certainly mere pride will not last long against the barrage. Even fucking him through his fist to account for the depth of his cunt, blood comes to stick between Gaius’ knuckles after only a few thrusts. 

Gaius never took any of his children in like manner, and Milisandia not at all; thus it cannot be her beneath him, biting through her lip to keep from keening, both hands prying at the threatening grasp ‘round her throat. It is only her murderer, and the murderer of her sister. Only the Warrior of Light. 

Gaius has been punished already for the role he played in ushering in Livia’s death, not insisting she retreat from the battlefield at the first sight of Eorzea’s hero even after Rhitahtyn were slain—fate or destiny had seen to that, and the Warrior of Light given his share of suffering, too. But neither of them have been punished for Milisandia’s, and Gaius does not mean to wait for fate to play her hand.

It has never been Gaius’ habit to brutalize any in displeasure—to fuck a punishment into the gape of a bloodied hole—neither to give voice to his anger nor to quiet heartache. He is not the Emperor, the Ascian, and to take after him now in this manner is abhorrent.

He’s no intention of exercising restraint.

Two of his children lie dead for his mistakes, and the rest revile him for them. He has surrendered his titles, his legion, all but his allegiance to Garlemald herself; why not also the tenuous grip upon propriety—upon morality? He lets go of his cock to instead tug at the straining lips of the Warrior of Light’s cunt, though the pain of it is likely negligible even when he pinches the tender, heated flesh between his nails; brings his hand up to rest upon the cavity between his hips, feeling the bulge of the cock moving under his skin. Dragging the hood of his clit back with his thumb, Gaius wonders if the man might be able to get off on this, if he too carries enough self-hatred on his shoulders that this brutality feels not only justified but satisfying.

It seems to be so, for the Warrior of Light allows his first sound past his lips: a ragged moan not unlike Livia’s, a cry of finding pleasure within pain. In return, for retaliation must be expected in war, Gaius delivers a particularly violent thrust to worsen the bruise he will already have made of his womb, even as his fingers maintain a relentless pace rubbing his throbbing clit. The Warrior of Light writhes, pinned beneath him, caught and _seen_ , and for a moment Gaius thinks _we are not so unalike_. 

They have both been tools to be used and discarded by Emet-Selch, both stood by and watched the people they loved die needlessly for their championed cause, both killed thousands and tens of thousands. They both want to _hurt_. The only difference between them is that the Warrior of Light is Hydælyn’s chosen, as Tempered as any eikon’s thrall; Gaius’ crimes are no star’s, but only his.

Gaius gasps for a sudden, searing pain: the Warrior of Light’s fingers digging into the wound on Gaius’ abdomen, the one he gave him. They pump in and out of his torn flesh, a mockery of sex with little difference from the violence Gaius is visiting between his legs. 

“Petty,” Gaius chastises, and tightens the grip on his throat to forbid a response. Instead the Warrior of Light comes apart beneath him, thighs shaking and cunt clenching as best it might, so torn around the merciless width of Gaius’ cock. His face is pained, snarling, his eyes screwed tearlessly shut. There is no air in his lungs to cry out for his need, nor whine when Gaius does not let up his touch; when Gaius releases his grip, it is only for long enough he might gasp another breath, his orgasm another victory stolen from his foe’s hands.

Having visited such brutality Gaius himself lasts hardly longer—a few minutes at most before his final, haphazard thrust, and then he holds still until his release washes over him, pleasureless and empty. He pulls out; sits back on his shins while the wreck he’s made of Eorzea’s hero lays gasping, blood and spend dripping from the gape of his ruined cunt. It pools in the dirt.

The Warrior of Light coughs, pushing himself up with all his weight on his shaking arms, and Gaius can already see the shadow of his hand on his throat, painted in quick-forming bruises. He looks at the mess between his legs, mouth working silently and gaze distant, half-focused. Then, softly: “Fuck.”

A blur of motion and a vibrant burst of dull pain in his jaw: a punch, though hardly a strong one. Gaius raises his eyebrows and meets the Warrior of Light’s gaze, rubbing the ache in his jaw with one hand. “Is aught amiss?”

Disgust once again mars his soft features as the Warrior of Light spits, eyes burning, “If you’ve— _bred_ me, I’ll have your head, Gaius Bælsar.”

Gaius scoffs at the indignation, and in part his own indiscretion—he had certainly never been so reckless with Livia or Allie. “It is fully within your power to drink a preventative, boy. Do not beg for the worst if you cannot stand to bear its consequences.”

Silence falls upon them; after some time, the Warrior of Light struggles to his feet, legs unsteady and dripping gore. 

“You’ll have to tell Cid all you saw in the wreckage,” Gaius says softly, watching the Warrior of Light’s back as he dresses in his overcomplicated robes. His staff he tucks into his belt, reaching not for a spell to heal the both of them, nor even to soothe his own hurts. Perhaps it would defeat the purpose; for his part Gaius has no intentions of using a curative potion to mend his wounds before their time. “I would not be present myself.”

The Warrior of Light looks at him over his shoulder, expression unreadable, and offers him a stoic nod.


End file.
